Angel
by piratesmiley
Summary: P/O. "Mr. Leader, Beady Eyes, and Fabio were economic vampires, or at least their bosses were. Peter knew; he’d been one before."


A/N: Inspired by Peter's lovely line in 1.12. :)

Disclaimer: I don't own Fringe.

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_I kept it to remind me never to wager with anything that I couldn't bear to live without._

-

Oh yes, he feels the burn. He feels the dryness making his throat stick painfully; he feels the tension rolled up tight in his stomach, floating there, cajoling the acid and burning at the slightest touch. He'd played with fire. Yes, he feels the burn.

He deserves it, he knows he does. He's never felt more deserving of torture. Guilt was now an undeniable essence that came with him. One could taste it, smell it, figure out the whole sob story just by looking at him. It would only be lifted once she was safe. And this time it really was his fault; it wasn't her morals or instincts or martyrdom that decided she would go in—it was him. He threw her in. He made a wager with a con, a deal with the devil. The genius had never felt so stupid.

So there they were: Peter in a smart suit, briefcase full of government money in hand. The new girl was primed and raring to go, looking for a fight—fighting just to fight and for no other purpose. Three greasy men with three warm guns, one with a preference toward Olivia's head. And then Olivia herself, bloody, beaten, bruised. Eyes begging for a reprieve. _Save me_. _I'll let you this time._

Peter tried desperately not to forget his lines, nor to give anything away on his face. They apparently picked today to be mutually exclusive concepts, but he tried to hold it together. Tried not to shake.

Maybe the blame wasn't entirely on him—Olivia Dunham had told him to say those words, told him to use her as an empty body. She had set personal feminism aside, back thousands of years to where women were business transactions, and one could never have too many. He felt disgusted for being talked into this. The argument had been that she could take care of herself, she had done this many times before, she could act. But that was exactly why he should have said no: she had been too lucky, too many times before. The Fates despised her, and Peter was sure that would be her downfall.

"Now, if you'll just pass the money over here, we'll be on our way." The tone was genial and menacing, polite and unctuous. At first, the act had been friendly on both sides, but in a previous engagement Peter had slipped up, shown just a little too much care for the object, and now the assholes had the upper hand. So nobody played nice anymore.

"Let her go, and I will." Evenly, enunciated, slow. He was stony in fear.

It was sad that he had come to some semblance of a realization because of circumstances like this. She was going to hate him for doing this, for lobbying to make that bet. She knew that he had a problem with that; nobody should have let him near the table. He went a little too far for a very small piece of information. And because Olivia found that bit of knowledge worth all the trouble, he knew she was worth it too.

But physically, he felt like he was a gelatinous mass of quivering fear, which could mean one of two things. One: he was drunk, in Kosovo, playing Russian Roulette with a now dead asshole named Mack and some guys he was half-certain belonged to the mob. Or two: he was sober, somewhere in the forest between Manhattan and Boston, playing Russian Roulette with his best friend's life.

It was the latter. Peter had never let anyone make him feel this way, for any reason. He waved at denial as it sailed by. It wouldn't let him hide anymore.

He couldn't look at her right now. If he looked into those eyes he'd lose it, and in turn, her. It was better this way, if he showed no preference.

The leader cocked his gun closer to Olivia's head, making her wince. Peter's eyes didn't leave his face, they couldn't. The man laughed sinisterly and pulled it away, pushing her forward, watching her stumble and limp to their side. She stood in a way that let him place his hand on her back without them noticing. He tried to give some small comfort, apply some air of false safety at the least.

All three men holstered their weapons, indirectly reminding Peter that he needed to give the signal. He worried for a moment that he wouldn't pull off his signal with as much finesse as Olivia and 'Christmas,' but he quickly came to a solution.

"Shall we?" He indicated the briefcase handcuffed to him and the lone table in the open warehouse.

The money was counted meticulously, because to these people money was blood. Mr. Leader, Beady Eyes, and Fabio were economic vampires, or at least their bosses were. Peter knew; he'd been one before. He put himself between the triumvirate and the two women.

To lift the package Peter came to collect —the secondary package, of course—took both henchmen at full strength. Mr. Leader's gun was holstered in a semi-genial show. This was the time. One shot. Now or never.

"Ms. Johnson," Peter code-named New Girl, calling her to attention, "could you be an angel and help our friends over there?"

Agent New Girl took one step forward to incapacitate Mr. Leader as the room flooded with agents and officers, guns blazing. The henchmen couldn't do anything but set the crate down slowly and give in.

Olivia slumped into his side.

"Well, that was my worst idea ever," she tried to joke. The attempt was feeble.

"It was my fault. I shouldn't have let you do that," he kept it low, so the buzzing agents wouldn't hear.

"It's not your job to protect me."

"And yet I do it anyway. What do you think that says about me?"

_About us?_

She had nothing to say to that.

He didn't want her—need her—to say anything at all.

Olivia took a nice moment to realize she was alive and to let a smile blossom on her face. He laughed softly and kissed her cheek. In silence he carried her home.


End file.
